


Dovetailed

by turquoisetulips



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoisetulips/pseuds/turquoisetulips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where John runs a small home repair and custom wood works shop in London.  Some custom orders are stranger than others.  Some customers are stranger than others.  One in particular...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fanfic! Absolutely all mistakes are mine. Please feel free to give constructive criticism!  
> Will try to update weekly--let's see where this goes!

**Prologue**

The sun was just slipping behind the London skyline as John fished out his shop keys. The little nip to the air a decisive reminder that October had arrived with the promise of wind and rain, as he shivered just a touch in his jumper and boots. He swung the door open and was met by the scent of sawdust, varnish and the heady aroma of pine. He dropped his keys onto his old oak desk, and took a look at the ‘urgent order’ Molly had assured him couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Molly had called him with amusement lacing her voice as she gave John the details of her favorite customer’s latest request--a three legged stool that could support 35.7 stone. John had chuckled to himself, fairly certain such a stool couldn’t be made, and couldn’t help but look forward to the challenge. “More interesting than another custom pepper mill,” he laughed wryly and set about his nearly impossible task.

Six hours later and five hundred pounds of neatly stacked wood found John covered in sweat, wood shavings and a triumphant grin as he looked at the stool that had finally, _finally_ supported the weight requirements. As he brushed off and locked up he mused that it was a damn good thing his funny client hadn’t given many specifics, and was glad he had been paid a handsome fee up front.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bearded John. John has a beard. Sherlock is a big cranky brat. Molly is adorable. Not as adorable as John's beard.

“Molly! Molly doll, where are the nails I asked you for yesterday?” John tried to hang onto his patience, which was always in weaker supply after a late night, restless sleep and the coffee kettle being broken once again.

“I’m picking them up now!” Molly’s nervous titter was coming from somewhere underneath the store counter.

“Picking them up?” John craned over the counter and then couldn’t help his indulgent grin at the sight of Molly hurriedly scooping nails back into their box. “How’d they get on the floor, love?”

“Sorry, John, but Mr. Holmes came in for his order and I wasn’t looking where my elbows were going and I...” Molly trailed off and smiled shyly as John just chuckled. 

John came around the gleaming cherry counter and knelt down to help. “So, Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome came in? Was he happy with his order or were you too busy ogling to notice?” John teased good naturedly, eyes crinkling playfully, knowing he was close to the mark with the way Molly flushed bright pink. “I...I don’t think he took a look at it, he rushed in and out so fast...” Molly stammered to a halt and blushed even more, which never failed to renew John’s fondness for her. 

Even after his sister Harry’s messy separation, John still had a deep love for her wife Clara and her family, especially her little sister. And knowing such a shy sweet thing had such keen interests and ambition made him more than happy to give her a steady job in his small shop so she could continue the uphill slog through medical school. True, it had caused Harry to come around less and less, but with the excess drinking John could admit that it wasn’t such a bad thing, however guiltily. 

“Here, love, I’ll take care of this if you’ll be good enough to pop down and get us some coffees, yeah?” John took the box from her slender hands, “Just take a tenner out of the till.”

As Molly popped out with her too long scarf wound too many times around her, John set about putting the shop to rights. He had just finished picking up the last of the nails and sweeping up, and had gotten down on hands and knees to wipe the baseboards when the shop bell gave it’s light ring.

“Morning!” John continued to work his way along the far wall, “Give a shout if you need anything!”

A moment passed before the sound of footsteps halted directly behind John, and then a deep, posh and aggravated voice rumbled through the shop, “Why don’t I begin by shouting about your utterly pathetic attempt to perform a simple task?” 

John froze for a second in surprise, plopped his rag down on the floor, rose and turned to see just who had waltzed into Gladstone’s. 

John froze again-just for a second-and not entirely from surprise.

Admittedly, the past thirty seconds and the following five minutes were not what either party had expected that morning.

~~~

Sherlock had strode down the street with his coat snugged as tightly as his lips were pursed. He had slammed into Gladstone’s ready to tear into the shop girl for botching his order and bringing his research to a grinding halt before he could get properly started. 

What he was met with instead was the upturned bottom of the man who had obviously constructed what he was ready to send smashing through the storefront window. Dark, well fitted denim only accented how fit the man wearing them was. Sherlock pushed that particular observation aside in favor of scowling darkly as the man rose, brushing off his knees and straightening his oatmeal jumper. Drawing himself up to his full height he met an incredulous gaze and the darkest of blue eyes as the man before him widened his stance, standing straight and strong.

Observations flashed like lightning through Sherlock’s mind before a slightly stunned, “Excuse you?” registered.

“I ordered a three legged stool that could support 35.7 stone exactly, and what you’ve given me could hardly be called more than a cheap slab.” Sherlock dropped the box containing said slab at his feet and petulantly crossed his arms. “I understand that the weak minded may have trouble with large words, though I did not think that S-T-O-O-L constituted as one of them.”

Sherlock fully expected an argument, a piss off, another reason to believe he was one of the select few above the feeble minded masses. What he was not expecting was for the man staring slightly open mouthed before him to--of all things--laugh. No one ever laughed at him except to mock him, but this warm sound seemed...different.

“So you must be the mysterious Mr. Holmes. I’ve been wondering who could be placing such odd orders and making Molly’s head spin.” John ran a hand through his short blond hair and then smoothed his neatly kept beard. His lopsided grin was enough to give even the great Sherlock Holmes pause.

“Molly?” He asked, momentarily sidetracked. 

“Yeah, Molly, the girl who minds the counter and drops everything when you come in.” John’s smile shifted into something a little more subdued. “So what’s wrong with that stool, Mr. Holmes?”

Snapping Sherlock back into the entire reason for his second visit in as many hours, he sneered, “It’s inadequate.”

“Hang on a moment.” John said with a simple shrug and went around the counter to fish out the previous nights order. “Says right here you wanted a stool that could support a determined weight. No other requirements were given, including height or color or material or anything.” John dropped the order onto the counter with a smirk and continued, “So I don’t think you’ve got much of a leg to stand on in terms of how the stool I crafted meets the standard you set, Mr. Holmes.”

“It’s six inches off the ground!” Sherlock gave the box a shove with his very expensive looking black leather shoes. “A man’s innocence could rely on whether or not a simple wooden stool could support that precise weight and this is what you give me!”

“A man’s innocence? What exactly are you on about? There’s no way a stool above that height can support that weight without being-”

“What did you just say?” Sherlock cut him off, his eyes going sharp and keen from one heartbeat to the next.

Taken slightly aback, John repeated, “There’s no way it could support-” and was promptly cut off again as Sherlock waved his arm about and said in exasperation, “No, no, before that!”

John licked his lips and repeated, “I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on-” before being interrupted once again as Sherlock gesticulated wildly before he grabbed his phone and started texting even faster than he spoke.

“Of course! Of course! Yes, brilliant, John!” And with that he slipped his phone back into his pocket and bolted out the door, leaving a very bewildered John Watson staring at a box that contained a stool that he had apparently made for a madman.

~~~

Molly walked in just as John was stashing the slightly dented box in the supply cupboard, reasoning he couldn’t sell what was no longer his. He gratefully accepted the coffee from Molly and went back to his task at the baseboards.

“If Mr. Holmes comes back for his inadequate stool it’s in the back closet,” he called over his shoulder.

“He was here?” Molly’s eyes popped wide, “again?”

Laughing lightly John filled her in as they bustled about the shop. As the guests for the day began to flit in and out, John caught Molly’s soppy look.

“Don’t know what you see in him,” John teased lightly, “unless you’ve got a thing for terribly rude men who can’t hold a proper conversation. Though I’ve got to say you didn’t mention how gorgeous he is.” 

Molly just sighed and flushed, which was really a charming look for her with all that long brown hair and doe soft eyes.

No other mention was made of Mr. Holmes until the following week. Though, John would never admit aloud, he hadn’t been teasing Molly by saying the man was gorgeous. Visions of a pale face, dark riotous curls and heavy brows framing piercing narrowed grey eyes flirted with John’s daydreams as the days slipped by. All the while he was nagged by a quiet little question: how had Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome known his name was John?


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of conversation, furtive glances and a botched attempt at borrowing.

Ten quiet, ordinary days passed by finding John once again wrestling with the damnable coffee kettle. 

“Just get a new one!” Molly sing-songed for the fourth time that afternoon.

“Oi!” John called back, “don’t go telling me to replace something that I can fix with my eyes closed!”

“From the way you’re hammering at it you’d be better off trying to fix it with your eyes closed!” Molly chirped, “I’m off, then! Got class and lab so I’ll be in around noon tomorrow. Bye!” And with that she was off to Bart’s, leaving John to mind the shop and continue to tinker with a very broken kettle.

Five minutes and a few angry sparks later found John with a slightly singed finger tip and and a threat of ‘start working or else’ hanging in the air between himself and the kettle. He filled the reservoir from the tap and flicked the switch to boil, hoping for the best. 

John hefted a box of new secateurs and went to stock their shelf, humming a little tune and nodding to his last few customers. Once the last shopper of the evening finished lingering over which varnish to buy, John rang him up then flipped the store sign to Closed whilst throwing the latch. He flicked off all the lights except the one in the office just behind the counter. He checked on the kettle to find lukewarm coffee which-while miles better than cold coffee-just wouldn’t do. He dumped it, set to fiddling around with a screw driver for a bit and then trying ‘one last time, I’m warning you!’ for hot water.

He scooped up the research paper Molly had left next to the antiquated register for him to edit. Cochlear damage research wasn’t his forte, but he knew more than enough to give her a few pointers and corrections. And they both pretended he didn’t pour over her text books and papers when no one was looking. He grabbed his post-its and red pen, leaned a hip against the counter and set about reformatting and polishing her earnest and thorough work as the last rays of sunlight whispered through the windows.

John had his tongue between his teeth and pen hovering inches above a dodgy paragraph when he heard a strange, soft clicking at the door. He exhaled slowly and waited with bated breath, pen still and shoulders gone taught with tension, hearing one more little click. The dusk made the figure on the other side of his shops ornate forest green door barely visible as he kept his movements natural and turned his head to look out the wide storefront windows. He cracked a knuckle on his left hand against his jaw as he passed it over his beard. But yes, there, he could see just beneath Gladstone’s black and gold lettering a crouched figure at his door. He silently set down his pen and walked around the counter, circling towards the front display which held--among other very dangerous tools--an array of rubber mallets. John stealthily lifted one and gripped it easy and firm in his hand as he stood beside the door, where he knew he would not be seen until the last second when the door swung open.

Two more soft clicks and the lock gave way, John watched as the figure behind the glass straightened and slowly extended a gloved hand through the very top of the door frame to grip the bell, pressing the clapper with his thumb to mute the ring. John stood calm and steady as the intruder lifted the bell and opened the door just enough to step inside. When the dark clad body was halfway through John gave the door an almighty kick with the heel of his boot, slamming the would be burglar painfully between the door and frame. As the thief was sandwiched unexpectedly, the bell sprang free and began to ring and bounce with vigor just as John raised his boot for another kick, denting the door and the head of the unfortunate man caught in it.

A muffled cry was cut short as John gripped a flailing arm and wrenched it painfully, pulling it’s owner inside and down onto his knees as he raised the mallet, ready to knock the arm out of it’s socket. 

“Wait!” A lithe twist and shuffle freed the intruders arm, “Wait!” a very lucky scoot back made John’s mallet miss the man’s wrist by a hair. 

“John, wait!” 

The sound of his name made John pause with his arm extended back, mallet ready to swing. He stretched his other hand out to turn on the shop lights without ever taking his eyes off the intruder. The sight of wildly disheveled black curls and wincing grey eyes made John drop his arm--but not his weapon--in shock.

“Mr. Holmes?” John ricocheted from shock to outrage as he shouted, “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”

John took a menacing step forward as Mr.Holmes shuffled back, sprawled on the floor and nearly tripping over his billowing coat. John glared down into a very pale face and growled, “Why the buggering fuck are you trying to break into my shop?” 

Mr. Holmes made another strategic shuffle backwards and glanced past John for a split second before looking up at a dangerously angry face and saying, “Smoke.”

“What?” John paused in his advance, “What do you-”

“Smoke.” Mr. Holmes pointed one long leather gloved finger behind John just as a loud crackle and pop sounded from the office.

“Shit!” John turned and ran to the office, dodging around the counter to rip the plug of a smoking, sparking kettle out of the wall as the water boiled over and began to shriek. Sherlock was hot on his heels, vaulting gracefully over the counter with his uninjured arm. He stood just in the doorway as John eyed the clearly dead kettle darkly before turning to face a man who looked far too smug for how battered he was. 

John looked at the beginning of a nasty bruise forming along the man’s brow, then looked down at the mallet still clutched in his hand. He set it on the desk, and couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled out of him. Looking at the bruised and bewildered face of the madman before him set him off laughing even harder, clutching his side as he fought to reign himself in. 

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” John straightened his red button down and patted his short mussed hair into place, “you still haven’t answered me.” 

“Sherlock, please,” he said, blinking several times as he watched John smooth his dark blond beard and settle into an ease that was no less dangerous to Sherlock’s health.

“Sherlock, then,” John licked his lips and asked once again, “What has you breaking and entering this evening?”

Sherlock gathered himself, adjusting his coat and almost hiding a wince as he replied, “I have an order for you. I had planned to leave a note on the counter and borrow a few tools, seeing as how your ancient method of running a business bars you from accepting orders via email.” 

John’s arms crossed, then unfolded to hold up a finger as he leaned forward and said, “Borrow?” followed by a raised eyebrow that Sherlock steeled himself against, “Borrow a few tools? As in rob me?”  
Under normal circumstances, when there wasn’t what seemed to be an affable man crackling with controlled rage in front of him, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes and scoffed. Under these circumstances, Sherlock near to imperceptibly gulped-his somewhat tangled blue scarf bobbing oh so slightly-and replied brazenly, “As in borrowed and returned in the morning.”

Sherlock willed himself not to step back as John’s face darkened and his arms folded themselves once more across his chest. 

“Not good?”

The question, paired with a wary and puzzled look, was enough to spur John into drawing a deep breath, marginally relax his stance and reply with the tiniest tilt to his chin, “Bit not good, yeah.”

John sighed, gripped the back of his desk chair and spun it outwards. “Here,” unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves, John instructed, “take that great bloody coat off and sit down. I want to take a look at that shoulder and we’ll find something to put on that eye.”

At Sherlock’s furrowed brow, John pointed to the seat and pulled a medical kit from its place on the wall beside his spartan desk saying, “It’s okay, I was a-” and being promptly interrupted by a deep rumble, “Doctor. Yes, I know.” Sherlock slipped his coat and scarf off and draped them over the back of the chair before taking a seat.

John’s brow quirked as he asked, “How could you possibly know that?” He set the medical kit on the desk and regarded the man looking up at him cautiously, “Did someone tell you about me?”

“No one told me anything, I simply observed.” That deep, velvet voice sounded near blasé as Sherlock skimmed his gloves off of long, pale fingers. 

“Observed.” John echoed behind him, not a question but no less a bid for explanation. Sherlock twisted around to glance at John before facing forward and launching into a line of observations that gripped John, spun him about and set him down feeling as though a whirlwind had passed through him.

“I know from ordering previously that you are none other than John Watson, master craftsman and proprietor of this establishment. The scars on your hands and forearms as well as the slight splay of your right thumbnail belay your experience with carpentry over the past three decades of your life. You no doubt inherited this business from your father and rebuilt what was once a decrepit eyesore in threat of foreclosure. The file cabinets along the back wall have all of the company dealings from 1972 to the year 2008 in one cabinet and each year after that is allotted it’s own drawer, which tells me you took over the store in 2009 after you retired from the military.” John’s eyes widened, propelling Sherlock into expanding on that particular observation, “Retired three and a half years ago and took over the family business, so to speak, in spite of your medical training. Due to sentiment, no doubt. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John ran his tongue over his teeth and replied, “Afghanistan. But how could you possibly know about that?” John gently gripped Sherlock’s wrist and rotated his shoulder, feeling along his clavicle for bruising. 

“The cut of your hair and the way you hold yourself tells me you’re a military man. As well as the tactics you used to incapacitate an intruder.” 

The tiniest smirk twitched at John’s lips as he interjected, “The intruder being none other than yourself, of course.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, “Irrelevant,” and continued, “There is also your punctilious nature and the fastidious cleanliness and order of your person and this operation speak of the ingrained mentality of a soldier. As far as your medical knowledge, the textbooks stacked on the countertop as well as the paper you were correcting no doubt belong to Mildred,” 

“Molly.” John dropped Sherlock’s wrist and turned his attention to the swell over a heavy black eyebrow. That was going to bruise up something fierce.

“But the books here in your office date back to nearly twenty years,” Sherlock continued uninhibited by John’s correction, “and there are three medical references to each woodworking guide. So you are a trained doctor and retired military man who owns and operates Gladstone’s and is none other than the one who signs my orders as John H. Watson. What does the H. stand for? Ahh!” Sherlock broke off on a hiss as John pressed a little too hard against his brow. 

“Never you mind that,” John uncapped some arnica cream and then pushed Sherlock’s curls back with one hand, wiping the little nicks below the hairline and then dabbing on the cream. “That...was amazing.” John said each word with such awe and sincerity, it compelled Sherlock’s eyes to snap to his.

Sherlock took a little sip of breath, “You think so?” he asked.

“Yes, that was fantastic,” John stepped back and capped the cream before placing it back in the kit and wiping his hands with a flannel. “That was quite amazing.”

Sherlock composed himself quickly, saying, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?” John sat back against the lip of the desk, folding his arms casually. All threat and anger forgotten.

“Piss off.”

This pulled a laugh out of John, as Sherlock smoothed his hands over his trousers. “Did I get anything wrong?” Those cutting grey eyes slanted sideways to look at John’s face, full of mirth and good nature.

John took a long, even breath, “I never retired. Medical discharge.” His eyes dropped to the floor, “I was discharged two years ago, and took Gladstone’s over when I was able, to spare my sister from running it alone. She takes care of the books for me now.”

“Able.” Sherlock’s eyes swept over every inch of John, quick and calculating. “You were shot. There’s always something. You were shot?”

“Yeah, shoulder.” John’s tongue darted out as quick as his giggle.

“Left shoulder?” Sherlock stood, turning to face John, standing close enough to look down into his cobalt eyes framed by barely visible blond lashes.

“Lucky guess.” John tilted his head back to look up at a that otherworldly face. Tall dark and handsome...damn.

Sherlock turned away to grasp his coat and scarf and return the chair to its place at the desk next to John. Draping the garments over his arm, the faintest glimmer of humor flirting with his full lips as he replied, “I never guess.”

John pushed away from the desk and slowly dumped the acrid smelling kettle off of the counter and into the bin, replying with an impish smile, “Yes, you do.”

Looking up at Mr. Holmes, John tucked his thumbs into his belt loops and asked, “So, what’s this order that couldn’t wait?”

Sherlock gave John a careful glance, “and the tools?”

“Oh, the ones you wanted to nick?” John tilted his chin down and gave Sherlock a playfully disbelieving look, “we’ll get to those later.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some budding affection and a dash of daydreaming as these two goofs realize how wonderfully they just might fit together!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! 
> 
> Also, so happy for Ben C!!! Can't wait for the wedding photos and omg I hope they have kids immediatley!!! 
> 
> Thank you to my deliciously weird friend Lauren for the buried alive lesson!

“Why on God’s green earth do you need a coffin with a release hidden inside?” John’s intrigue was thankfully trumping his exasperation as he tried yet again to explain, “Once it’s buried under six feet of tilled dirt no safety catch is going to lift that lid!”

Sherlock nearly audibly rolled his eyes, though the abundance of curled wood shavings clinging to his curls dampened the effect considerably, “Of course it wouldn’t lift under those conditions but this casket was only buried one meter under ground which is approximately 1.6 tonnes of soil encompassing the entire surface of said casket.”

Sherlock turned from examining the table John was clearing to sift through the drill cabinet for the sixth time. He hefted and replaced each tool in turn, fingering the bits and toying with the triggers as he resumed his lecture, “the victim knew he was going to be buried alive and had planned ahead in order to dig himself up and out.”

“That,” John took a plug out of Sherlock’s hands as it was wandering uncomfortably close to a socket, “seems like an awful lot of work when perhaps he could have avoided being buried alive in the first place.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip pulled into what he convinced himself was not a pout as John removed an electric drill from him to return it to its cabinet before firmly shutting the doors with a poignant look.

“Sherlock,” John’s tongue darted across his lips, ignoring the way his fingers itched to reach up and brush some wayward shavings from Sherlock’s shoulder. Strange, how hard it seemed to keep his hands to himself. “Listen, I think you may have me confused with an engineer. There’s only so far I can go here and you’re looking at something much more complex than a pop switch.”

The nearly scandalized look on Sherlock’s face warranted the smirk on his own, if he did say so himself.

“I have not confused a single trait that may outwardly display commonality betwixt a joiner and an engineer,” Sherlock ruffled his already wild curls, scattering wood shavings everywhere, “I’m simply working within the same parameters of the victim!” 

Sherlock began pacing and continuing his exploration of John’s ruthlessly neat workshop. The detached shop was nestled almost secretly behind Gladstone’s with a small and charming garden between the two. How many hours had John spent hidden away lost in projects and orders? He could vividly picture John bathed in afternoon sunlight, utterly focused yet relaxed as he shaped beautiful things with those steady and capable hands. Warm plaid shirt rolled to the elbow, it was obvious where John habitually dropped his keys, where he would set his mug, which tools were his own and which had been handed down. Sherlock was surprised by the whimsical nature of his own thoughts...perhaps he was a touch concussed.

At John’s huffed breath of laughter Sherlock turned to see him sketching a plan at his drafting table. The lights lining the small path from the shop’s office to John’s workspace shone dimly through the large bay windows the desk was settled in front of. John scooted his chair out of the way and widened his stance on the well worn floorboards as he smirked and twisted around a bit to throw a glance at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Alright,” the crinkling sound of the drafting paper married well with the crinkling lines around John’s eyes, “walk me through it once more, yeah?”

Sherlock’s gaze razed John from head to toe and back up again in the space of a heartbeat. He snapped his eyes away and launched into the details once again, nearly forgetting to sound annoyed at having to repeat himself.

“The feat of escaping a grave is only feasible if the buried can apply more pressure to the soil than the soil can apply back. Otherwise, they are helpless and paralyzed by a narrow window of time in which they must break the surface before asphyxiating. Panic is a limiting factor but in this case the victim was aware of his circumstances before he was placed within them. From the victim’s physique, we know he would not be able to push with enough force to escape, even with the force spread over both hands. Hence his need for a safety catch, but as the casket was subsequently burned we have no evidence as to the kind of catch he would have installed and utilized.” Sherlock paused to test a large hanging scale by dancing his fingers over the hook and pulling, then leaning his weight into it.

John turned to watch and couldn’t help thinking Sherlock was probably worse than having a five year old let loose in the shop. Though no less endearing, he decided it was probably best to draw his attention away from the tools so he asked, “Why was it burned?”

“While the victim was clever enough to escape his captivity, he didn’t account for his wife’s shock and use of the handgun they kept for protection. She thought she was seeing some manifestation of evil and shot him dead when he tried to return home. She ordered his coffin to be burned and had him cremated the second time around.” Sherlock looked up at John’s bark of laughter to see him clapping his hand over his mouth in an effort to stifle his giggles.

“Sorry, sorry, I know that’s not funny!” John wiped at his eyes and dropped his hands back to the table. John held his tongue between his teeth before beckoning Sherlock over.

“How about this?” John quickly drew the mouth of a casket, and then two folded hinges at the base and two at the center, “What if instead of swinging open like a door, it lifted up and away like a shelf in a bauble box? That way he could use his knees to push the lid up and over his head, keeping the dirt from raining down too terribly. This would give him room to turn and tunnel out. Would only take a few minutes and there’d be plenty of room to shift the soil.”

Sherlock leaned in close to John, taking the distance between them to mere inches. Crowding into John’s personal space, Sherlock watched with rapt attention as John continued to sketch with those sure, competent movements in his strong and battered hands. Plucking the pencil from John’s fingers and using his hip to give John something between a nudge and a shove aside, Sherlock began scribbling mathematical equations in an indescribable scrawl. John wished he could remember enough of his old physics lectures to recognize the symbols Sherlock was breezing through as if it was two plus two.

John watched those long, long pale fingers writing furiously and smudging with graphite...grey stains on a white canvas. He looked along Sherlock’s almost delicate wrists and up those wiry arms. John swallowed convulsively as his mouth went dry at the way Sherlock’s throat swept up from collarbones perfectly framed by his aubergine dress shirt. He watched Sherlock’s profile, marveling at those eyes so focused and intense they could pierce through walls. The way those full lips were pressed together in concentration, the draw of those heavy brows and those inky black lashes. All topped with that wild ruffle of funny curls. It was as if all of his frenetic energy corkscrewed out into those curls no matter how composed he tried to be.

Two thoughts struck John simultaneously and he clasped his hands quickly behind his back to hide their trembling. The first being that Sherlock looked as though he were composed of moonlight and crowned with darkness, with the very stars stolen from the sky and set as his eyes. The second being that he desperately wanted to worship this otherworldly creature that had seen and bared him with a glance using a voice like rolling thunderclouds and a tongue that cracked like lightning with his hands and mouth and press admiration into his skin. John took a long, steady breath and then made to close the distance between them and run his hand across those shoulders, up that elegant neck and into the blanketing darkness of his hair.

He was promptly interrupted by the buzz of a mobile and the flurry of movement as Sherlock snatched it up and began texting rapid fire. John disguised his aborted movement with a cough and a long firm stroke over his beard. Chiding himself to get a grip as the illusion dropped away. He turned back to the drafting table to try and decipher whatever Sherlock had been trying to puzzle together as that great gangly man stepped away to pace.

He could see it happening before he even turned to look. Sherlock would pocket his mobile, grab his coat and scarf and be out the door to be seen who knew when again. John braced himself against the table before forcing himself to turn if only to watch Sherlock leave. John wondered at his own ability to predict the future as Sherlock stowed his phone and swept himself up into his coat before tossing over his shoulder, “Excuse me I have to run we’ll resume this study again I’m certain,” whilst disappearing through the door and taking all of the air and space in the room out with him.

John balked at the sudden emptiness of the workshop. Sighing, John shook his head to himself and wondered at the strange turn his evening had taken. Deciding to head home he started to tidy up and was just waffling between crumpling and tossing the sketch he and Sherlock had made or tacking it to the wall when the door swung open once again.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, pulling his gloves on and giving John a contemplative look. “You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an army doctor.”

John stood straight and strong, squaring his shoulders. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s head tilted oh so slightly as he asked, “Any good?”

A thrill ran through John at the quiet challenge, “Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.” Sherlock took a few long strides to look down into John’s steadfast face.

“Mmm, yes.” John tilted his chin up, settling into the old familiar stance of a soldier.

Sherlock studied him with those kaleidoscope eyes, “Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes.” John spoke quietly, with conviction, “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

The light dancing in Sherlock’s eyes belied the stillness of his features as he paused before asking, “Want to see some more?”

To be answered by John’s fervent, low and steady, “Oh God, yes.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can barely be called a chapter! This is more of a segue into a the next chapter which is all about Sherlock and John solidifying their friendship and possibly opening a door to more!
> 
> Also, sorry for massive delays, I want to finish this up by Valentine's Day :)

The alley walls seemed to shrink and expand with the blue red blue red of the three police cars cordoning off half the block. Sherlock was drinking in the scene, his pupils blown wide in the dark. Black holes absorbing every iota of data they could reach. At his word, and the permission of the haggard DI, John knelt down beside the twisted limbs of a body that had been carefully killed and carelessly dumped. 

John gently lifted the right hand of the corpse-a slightly portly man, late thirties  
with smooth hands-and leaned forward to hold his face close to the bodies face and take a long deep breath. He brushed grit away from a swollen eye to lift the lid and expose the filmy, blank iris. With a nod John pushed himself to standing and turned to tell Sherlock, “Dead approximately three hours, bled out very slowly with no signs of struggle.” John pointed to one of hundreds of two inch shallow hatch marks, “Some of these have begun to close. It looks like just over half were made post mortem but some scabbing like this could mean he had been bleeding for about two hours.”

“Was he drugged?” The DI studied the scene and furrowed his brow, “how could he have been cut and bled without struggling?”  
“Obviously not. I’m certain even you’re team of incompetents will be able to prove thusly.” Sherlock began to stride away, John shared a brief glance with the DI before standing and starting after him. The agitated officer cut ahead and cornered Sherlock using what was clearly a practiced move. John tucked his hands into his pockets and hung back to give them the space they needed to discuss the details that Sherlock had gleaned from seven minutes in an alleyway. 

John watched just outside of the police tape and flashing lights as he waited for Sherlock to finish verbally masticating the paltry forensics tech that had dared to interrupt his conversation. John stood straight and easy, practically invisible to the police circumnavigating the alley that held the carved body of an unidentified middle aged man. The DI in charge had his arms crossed over his chest, stance wide as he listened to Sherlock tumble down a list of deductions and next steps to take.

Sherlock turned and walked to where John was resolutely ignoring the pretty Sergeant that had looked at him with equal parts scorn and curiosity. With an echo of, “So long, freak” behind them, John fell into step besides Sherlock. They walked in an almost comfortable silence until they had rounded enough corners to extinguish the lights and sirens as the police continued to clear the area. Sherlock slowed to a stop, then stood with his eyes unfocused and his body immobile as an ivory statue. John wondered if the taught skin over the crest of those sharp cheekbones would feel as cold and smooth as they looked when suddenly the foot of space between them felt to John as though he were behind a red velvet rope in a museum. Forever looking and never touching a masterpiece. Feeling suddenly awkward and out of place, John rubbed the back of his neck, not sure if he should ask what happens now.

Mercifully, Sherlock answered it for him with a sweeping glance and an almost smile as he simply asked, “Dinner?”

“Starving,” John licked his lips and quelled his smile as he followed Sherlock to the end of the block and into a low lit restaurant with a painted sign reading Angelo’s.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all like the new chapter! As always please feel free to point out any mistakes that may have slipped by me!

John quietly marveled as he and Sherlock were instantly shown to a table which was then promptly graced with candle light by the burly owner. The man clearly adored Sherlock, and for good reason. Facing down a grisly murder charge seemed like a well of terror for all but Sherlock, who could walk on water to find the one detail in order to save a life or ensure justice for one lost.

Placing his order at Sherlock’s behest and declining to comment on his companion’s lack of one led to a companionable silence that John found he rather enjoyed. Sherlock’s eyes were side lit as he watched the street traffic intently through the large bay window. John couldn’t help but to stare as Sherlock’s gaze flickered rapidly, like the tails of twin sparking comets. Placing his hand on the table, John allowed himself to wonder if Sherlock’s lack of protest at Angelo’s use of the word ‘date’ could mean that he was somehow miraculously on one with this exquisite young man.

A large plate of pasta was placed in front of John, drawing Sherlock’s razor sharp attention back to him. Trying valiantly to ignore the quick flair of butterflies in his stomach, John reached for his fork. “Sure you’re not hungry?” John asked as he twirled delicate angel hair onto his utensil and savored the first bite.

“I don’t eat when I’m working.” Sherlock continued to watch John with that unveiled stare.

Perhaps the soft light and romantic atmosphere were playing tricks on John, but he could swear it sounded as though Sherlock’s voice was deeper and fuller. His words precise and his tone a shade away from sultry. Please, God, he thought fervently, let this be a date.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Sherlock tilted his head as he posed the question, his angular face perfectly framed by dark curls as they fell across his brow. 

“Remember?” John took a sip of rather excellent wine and tried to focus on what Sherlock was asking rather than that candle light suited him. Illuminated those striking features in a way that evoked images of oil painted gods of myth and legend. Clearing his throat, he shook off his wayward thoughts long enough to ask, “Remember what?”

Sherlock hummed and glanced away.

“Probably for the best.” Sherlock laced his long fingers together and then steepled them under his chin. 

Sensing that he wasn’t going to get any further explanation, John spied the bandage he himself had placed over Sherlock’s brow not three hours ago and asked, “How’s your head? Shoulder all right?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched and he simply answered, “Superficial.”

Chuckling, John continued to enjoy his dinner and patted his napkin over his lips, raising an eyebrow and teasing, “I don’t know, mate, I’ve been informed I pack quite a wallop.” 

“While I can attest to the truth of that statement,” Sherlock leaned barely an inch forward with the tiniest of smiles, “the body is mere transport.”

“Got to take care of what carts that great big brain of yours around, though.” John leaned forward fractionally, mirroring Sherlock’s movement. “Do you have someone…a girlfriend who’ll be there to patch you up?”

“Is that what girlfriend’s do? Patch you up?” Sherlock pulled back, settling into his seat as the waiter slipped silently by to top off John’s water. 

John didn’t drop his gaze or the thread of his questioning and tried to casually confirm, “So you’ve got a girlfriend?”

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately, “not really my area.”

“Ah,” John’s heart leapt straight into his throat, he swallowed hard and asked the crucial question, “Do you have a boyfriend then?”

Sherlock became somehow stiller, and after three sickening heartbeats that beautiful baritone shaped the word, “No.”

John allowed himself an easy smile, sliding effortlessly into flirtation, “So unattached then. Just like me.” He glanced at Sherlock from under his lashes and held him there, praying that Sherlock would show some sign of returned interest. John loved and hated this part, the first steps of an old familiar dance with a partner that may rush to meet you or turn away completely. This felt less like seduction and more like grasping a live wire. It was exhilarating. And terrifying. Much like the man eyeing him unblinking across the table. 

…

Sherlock’s mind raced. He had been devastated by John’s inquiry after a girlfriend. Of course John Watson was straight. Sherlock mentally kicked himself, chiding that all he’d had to do was look at the beard and know without doubt that John was simply kind and not interested. Interesting, yes. More so than anyone Sherlock had met over the past decade. But interested? In Sherlock of all people? No. 

These thoughts tumbled and clamored, pushing and shoving his focus about until 10.83 seconds later when John casually inquired after a boyfriend. All of his thoughts came to a screeching halt. In the brief stunned silence of his mind, hope flared like a struck match in a dark room. Sherlock knew he had to answer, it took every ounce of self control he could scrape together to keep his face impassive and his hands still. Determined to keep his voice even, he could barely drag his answer across his lips.

And then suddenly there was John Watson, looking at him with cobalt eyes open and coy and warm, eyes that held an invitation and a promise. John Watson with the sweetest closed lipped smile that had the contents of Sherlock’s ribcage melt and puddle like hot wax. The man who had crackled with rage and violence towards him this very same night was now, by some great blessing from whatever divine being may be dwelling above, offering himself to Sherlock.

A great surge rushed from the soles of his feet up through his core and poured out of his mouth before he could contain it. Sherlock heard himself as if he were a witness outside of himself. What could he have ever expected himself to do with the tantalizing possibility of having this amazing, stunning, capable and strong man across from him? Sherlock did the only thing he could do.

He panicked.

…

John did an admirable job, in his own opinion, of hiding his crushing disappointment as Sherlock close to babbled, “John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…”

John gently cut him off, back peddling as smoothly as he could manage with a suddenly sandpapered mouth, “No. No, I’m not asking. No.”

So much for smoothly. John cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a sincere, fixed look saying, “I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”

Sherlock gave a slight nod and slipped back into his impassive demeanor and replied with only, “Good. Thank you.” 

Then he turned his attention back out to the street. Leaving John feeling slightly trodden on and not at all sure what he was doing out at close to one in the morning when he had a shop to open by seven. 

John set down his fork and noted with a twinge of sadness he couldn't quite justify that the candle on the table had extinguished itself. He supposed that was as good a cue as any to call it a night and head back to his little flat. Very much alone, to boot. As John made to catch the waiters attention to settle the bill for his solitary meal, Sherlock leaned close across the table to ask, “Why would someone sit still and complacent as they were slowly and methodically bled to death?”

Sherlock pinned John to his seat with his sharp eyes and velvet voice. Funny, John thought to himself, how every time he made to pull away from him Sherlock seemed to instantly and inexorably drag him back into his orbit. 

Oddly grateful for the new subject, John posited, “Could he have been threatened? Or perhaps he experienced some sort of fit that resulted in a comatose state that the killer took advantage of?” John gave a long, solemn pull over his beard and drummed the fingers of his left hand idly against the table top. “I didn’t smell any vomit on him, and no internal injuries were apparent. Then again the only external injuries I could see were all the shallow little hatch marks.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock leaned one forearm against the table, his other draped across the back of his chair, “no signs of struggle or sickness or intoxication. No history of self harm judging by his wrists and thighs. He was right handed, as was his killer, thus proving the wounds were not self inflicted.”

“Just because someone never cut themselves doesn’t mean they weren't self destructive, or depressed, or that they had mental health issues.” John rested his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his folded hands, “I can’t think of any reason to allow another person to methodically cut and drain you to the point of death over that length of time unless they were psychologically unsound. Or if they were trying to protect someone. But not to struggle at all?”

“You saw those marks, each of them were perfect. Straight from top to bottom and each at the same depth, but not made by a tool designed to make those cuts or shapes. The lines were made with an artist’s knife, not a scalpel. All while the victim just stood, then sat, then lay quietly and allowed it.”

“But why on earth would anyone do that?” John’s brows drew together as he wondered over the details.

“Yes, the why.” Sherlock’s eyes stared off at nothing as he thought. As though turning into himself and forgetting the world around him. In the next beat and quick as a snake Sherlock plucked John’s knife from his setting and aimed it at his wrist. John reacted so quickly he shocked himself as he placed one hand flat over the wrist beneath the knife and curled one hand none too gently around the wrist holding it. Bringing their faces very close together, John uttered one deathly chilling, “No.”

Sherlock swung from surprised to intrigued to petulant in less time than it had taken for him to snatch up the knife. John ignored the grown man pouting at him and placed both of Sherlock’s hands onto the table and eased the knife away. Once his arms were released Sherlock huffed and crossed them over his chest, forcing a laugh to bubble up out of John and for him to smile almost indulgently. 

“Please don’t damage yourself at the dinner table, Sherlock.” Good Lord, why did it feel as though he were suddenly talking a five year old out of a bad idea that was sure to land him nothing but a sore backside? 

Sherlock made to say something which would no doubt be snide and waspish when John took the opportunity to cut him off by saying, “I’m sure that brilliant mind of yours can find a way to test whatever theory that may be bouncing around in there that doesn’t involve hurting yourself.” As Sherlock’s pique visibly deflated and his thoughts shifted back to the problem at hand he stated imperiously, “I’m going to need nicotine patches.” 

John laughed again, light and easy as he nodded and tossed a few bills on the table. “Yeah, alright,” John swept his gaze over Sherlock and tamped down his feelings of regret and longing, “I’ve got to get myself along. Tomorrow’s knocking and I’m nowhere near ready to open the door to it.”

When they were both standing on the pavement, John watched as just the corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulled sideways before bidding him, “Goodnight, John.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, John watched as Sherlock turned and pulled on his gloves as he strode off into the night before turning and making his own way home. 

…

Sherlock slipped on his gloves and walked away as quickly as he dared. Slamming the sweltering feelings of want and loss and remorse and just the tiniest shred of cowardice as far down as he could. He refused to feel the way that the distance he put between himself and John made him feel small and then smaller. Lonely and then lonelier. Snapping with frustration, he hunched his shoulders and continued to stride through the heart of London. With a herculean effort he marshaled his thoughts and guided them to more pressing matters. 

He had a puzzle to solve.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG what is life and why does it keep happening?
> 
> Sorry for the huge delay, Molly's first line of dialogue is really me talking about my inability to get this chapter going.

John yawned so wide and long that his jaw cracked as Molly fumbled through the shop door. He had been asleep before his head hit the pillow but two hours of dreams haunted by pale rolls of thunder over miles of alabaster sand had him barely scraping by. Giving a wave to Molly he retreated into his back office to organize his orders for the month. By the time Molly had tied her apron and come around the counter he was snoring lightly at his desk. Molly stifled a giggle and a spark of curiosity at the sight of his head propped up by a fist pressed into his cheek. John was always so punctual and fastidious with his routine, what could he have been up to last night that had him taking an accidental kip at work? She pulled out her phone and snapped a quick picture as he snored gently before easing the door closed. Perhaps she could blackmail him into telling her why he was knackered if she threatened to put the photo in the window.

…

“Why did it take me three months to write a paragraph?” Molly chewed the end of her pen as she stared down at her thesis-in-progress. She smoothed the curling edge of her paper and reviewed the notes John had made. 

Molly had always been a keen and quiet wisp of a girl. Often seen as unassuming and easily dismissed, she held close a sharp intellect and an iron stomach which had led her towards a career that made her mother cringe. Though she had reasoned that while she still would work with plenty of people and wasn’t really antisocial, most of the people she would work with were on the other side of alive. She twisted her free hand around a loose lock of hair, leaning on the counter and sparing glances at the handful of shoppers milling about. Her thoughts drifting between her paper, the customers and how glad she was to be working at Gladstone’s as it was now. 

In Molly’s opinion, no matter how much she loved her dear sister Clara, the only good thing to come of Clara’s disastrous relationship with Harry Watson had been a connection to John Watson. John had possessed that same resilient core, and was affable and friendly in a way that had coaxed Molly out of her shell and into an affirmation that she could become a doctor and a damn good one at that. She had looked forward to John’s leave and visits, and had even fancied a bit of a crush on him in her school days. When he had come back injured and torn, Molly was the one who had seen the loss and devastation in his eyes. Clara had been spiraling through a terrible depression, Harry was off God only knew where swallowing down whatever bottle she could find and Molly had sat beside John’s hospital bed and watched as he silently reconciled within himself. She watched the light that used to dance in his eyes and across his features steadily refused to flicker back to life.

It had been Molly’s stuttering suggestion that John take over Gladstone’s. She had accompanied him from the hospital to his sad, tiny bedsit. He had seemed as lifeless and grey as the murky paint on the walls. When she stammered out that he should assume the family business, he had told her he’d see how his physical therapy went and that he would talk to Harry. After six weeks and radio silence from Harry, John had called Clara to ask for the shop keys and to offer Molly a job.

John had worked hard, cleaning and restocking, launching his own carpentry services, furthering his credentials as a master craftsman and allowing his medical degree to fade into nothing more than some old books on his shelves. He still devoured every scrap of literature Molly toted in her book bag. Medical journals often smelled suspiciously like tea and sawdust after spending a night on the shop counter. Molly never mentioned it, too grateful to see John looking anything like he used to. Over the last three years John had slowly become the easy going, dignified, patient man Molly had met on her sister’s wedding day. Granted, he didn’t smile as easily or laugh as lightly, but he had drive and purpose and was still an accomplished man. Over time he had needed his cane less and less, and then finally not at all, much to the delight of all who cared for him.

Now if she could only convince him to get a life. Maybe talk him into going on a date or two with that nice customer, whatever her name was…Mary? 

Molly was pulled from her reverie as the shop bell tinkled to life, ushering in a gruff looking man with short grey hair and a few days of stubble. He came straight to the counter, resting his large hands against it and regarding Molly with warm brown eyes. She pursed her lips to keep from smirking at the thought that if John twigged to another imaginary relationship she had with one of their customers she’d never hear the end of it.

“Hi, uh,” the man’s gravely voice pulled the mischievous smirk across her face in spite of herself, “I’m looking for a John Watson,” he continued with a mirrored twitch of his lips. 

“A John Watson or the John Watson?” Molly couldn’t help being facetious, it’s just that no one ever expected her to be. 

The man gave her a big, toothy grin and cleared his throat, “The John Watson if you please.” Drumming the fingers of both his hands once in unison, he watched as the little imp behind the counter tossed her ponytail back and said “Just a moment!” before disappearing through the door behind the counter.

Molly stood a few feet out of reach as she softly called John’s name. Clara had told her about the the time when Harry had shaken a sleeping John and had been tossed across the room, and that was well before he had been a soldier. On the third try John blinked his eyes open, bleary one moment and snapping to attention the next. Molly stifled a giggle at the sight of John’s gummy eyes and the dent in his beard from where his fist had been pressed against it. 

“What is it, Mols?” John’s voice was sleep rough with a twist of embarrassment as he set himself to rights. Standing and stretching, a sigh escaped him as his back and good shoulder popped.

“There’s a man asking after you at the counter.” Molly stepped aside to allow John through, and stood against the door jamb and watched as John stepped up to the counter and extended his hand to the silver haired gentleman.

…

“Oh, hullo, Detective Inspector Lestrade, was it?” John shook the DI’s hand and smiled inquisitively. 

“Yes, exactly right,” Lestrade shook the offered hand and then placed both hands on his hips, stance wide and comfortable. “Sorry to drop by at your place of business here, but Sherlock’s being a right twat and won’t tell me a bloody thing. I know we’re not mates or anything of the like, but as his colleague I was hoping he’d told you some details about the case. Even though I technically can’t discuss it with a civilian, but he did say this morning that you were his partner.”

“Erm…” at more than a bit of a loss, acutely aware of Molly behind him, John quickly decided to play this safe and sort out his questions later. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and tried not to show his obvious befuddlement. “Haven’t seen him since the wee hours, actually. Said he needed nicotine patches and popped off.” 

John turned at the sound of the office door shutting quietly behind him, cringing inwardly. Knowing that anyone else would have slammed it, or thrown something at him for good measure and then slammed it. He set that mess he would have to deal with on the back burner as he turned back to the DI whose eyebrows were raised, with the corners of his mouth tugged down. 

“How long have the two of you been, uh, working together?” Lestrade’s head cocked to the side, clearly trying to puzzle out just who John Watson was. 

Before he had a chance to answer, John’s phone made a soft ‘ding’. Tugging it out of his jeans he glanced at the text from an unknown number: ‘221B Baker street. Come if convenient. -SH’. “Um, not long at all, actually.” John refocused on the DI across the counter and continued, “Sort of sprung up out of nowhere, though he has been a customer of mine for some time now.”

Lestrade nodded and ran a hand over his stubble. “Alright, well, here’s my card.” He fished out his wallet and John took the proffered card as his phone made another ‘ding’. John peeked at the message from the same number that read: ‘If inconvenient come anyway. -SH”. John tucked both the phone and the card away into his back pocket. 

The DI regarded him for a short moment before giving a final nod and saying, “Ring me up if he tells you anything, yeah?” 

“Of course.” John replied as he smoothed a hand over his beard. The DI gave a crooked smile and left, the bell above the door giving a ring as he stepped out.

John watched as he strode down the walk, and then turned to regard the closed office door. “Molly?” He called out and knocked gently, “I’ve got to go out for a bit, okay?” 

Molly’s small voice answered “okay” and nothing more. John grimaced a bit and tried to not to feel like too much of a heel as he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. After all, it’s not like anything untoward had happened between him and Sherlock. John headed down the street towards the tube, ignoring the mid morning traffic and not sparing a thought to the black car idling at the far end of the street.

…

Molly didn’t shed a tear, in spite of the twist she felt in the pit of her stomach and the cavern of her ribs. Betrayal mixed with longing and rejection and okay, more than a bit of jealousy. She gave herself exactly three minutes to feel sorry about herself and mourn a relationship that never was and the very real possibility that it never would be. Sighing heavily, she slipped out of the office and went about tidying up the merchandise. “Ah, well,” Molly thought to herself, “it’s not like John isn’t the most deserving person in the world. If anyone was going to have a smoking hot fling it should be him.” At least now she knew why John had been so completely wiped out as to nap in the office. Molly continued to while the morning away, waiting for John to return. She gave a small smile to the pretty blonde woman who had stopped in for her monthly run of weed killer and rose food.

“So much for trying to set John up on a date,” she thought wryly.


End file.
